


A Lasting Impression

by Cameo (CameoSF)



Series: A Dark Journey [1]
Category: The New Legends of Monkey (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-31
Updated: 2019-08-31
Packaged: 2020-10-04 08:01:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,067
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20467709
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CameoSF/pseuds/Cameo
Summary: Set immediately after Season One - two of the surviving demons have some choices to make.





	A Lasting Impression

**Author's Note:**

> Contains big spoilers for Season One

The shaman watched in horror as Davari was swallowed up by the Orb he’d created. He didn’t wait around to see what the girl-monk and her friends had in store for him, instead winking out of existence in the tower room with a mere thought.

He reappeared in the Banquet Hall downstairs to find that most of the demons either had been disintegrated or had fled a losing battle. The only people left were humans and a handful of sentinels beating the stuffing out of the demons who remained. As he blinked out again, he saw some of the imprisoned gods had been freed and were wandering in looking weak, disoriented, but determined.

His next stop was his own chambers. It was clear that he would need to vacate the palace immediately, but his rooms held books and spell ingredients that were irreplaceable. He began filling two satchels as he contemplated where to go. He had no physical place of refuge, but if necessary, he could hide within the Breaking Ground sphere until things outside settled down in favor of one side or the other. If the gods prevailed, he would have to leave the area, but if the demons resurfaced, they would require new leadership, and Shaman expected he could become the new leader’s right-hand man as he had been Davari’s. The possibility of immortality was still on the table.

Bags full, he attempted to disappear and was shocked when it didn’t work. Only then did he turn to find Lior standing at his open door, watching him. The worn but still powerful god stood aside to let two burly humans in.

“You’re finished,” Lior stated gravely. “Your dark magic is no good to you.”

Shaman thought otherwise. He tried to expel the humans from his room, but nothing happened. He tried to will his precious items to another location, but they remained. In fact, the humans were able to take the bags from him and throw them aside before grabbing his arms and locking them in place. Lior calmly pulled the amulet from around Shaman’s neck and tossed it into a corner, followed by his ring.

“Burn everything in his rooms,” the god told two more humans who crowded in. He nodded to Shaman’s captors to join him in the corridor.

“No!” Shaman cried, more alarmed at the destruction of the ancient knowledge in his books than he was at the obliteration of Davari. “You can’t! So much will be lost!”

“Such trickery _should_ be lost.”

Lior led the way downstairs, and Shaman had no choice but to follow. His spirits sank as they went deeper and deeper into the palace until they’d reached the lowest level, the cells. Assuring himself that once the god and his humans had retreated he’d be able to escape, he let them push him into one of the dreary rooms and securely lock the barred door. He possessed magic that Lior didn’t know about and fully intended to be back in his chamber before his belongings could be destroyed.

“You will not be mistreated,” Lior told him somberly, “but neither will you be released while the war between gods and demons continues.” Shaman didn’t reply, knowing his face gave away no hint of his intentions. Lior made some arcane hand movements that glowed briefly blue in the torchlight and led the humans away.

Shaman instantly mouthed a spell to disintegrate the bars of the door, and was dismayed when it didn’t work. He had other charms hidden in his robes, but they didn’t obey his commands either. He was honestly growing alarmed, but forced his breathing to steady as he glanced around the cell for other ideas.

The room was quite large, but it contained little. Chains and manacles hung from the bare stone walls. Torches were placed high and far apart, providing many shadows. There were two low, rough cots, and Shaman actually took a step back upon seeing that one of them was already occupied.

“Dark magic doesn’t work here,” the white-haired Font Demon said shortly. He was sitting motionless, watching Shaman from across the room. “They’ve warded this cell.”

“The gods are not that strong,” Shaman pointed out.

“They’re strong enough to protect one room. That’s why we’re both here. They consider us the most dangerous of their remaining enemies.” Demon’s voice didn’t give any indication how he felt about that.

Shaman moved closer to study his cellmate. He knew of this font demon’s existence of course, but their paths had never crossed till now. Davari had always seemed to value the creature above his other brain-dead sentinels, re-animating him whenever he was killed. His assigned name had appeared on the demon’s forehead when he was in Davari’s control, but nothing showed there now, just the other writing on his jawline that described what type of demon he was and what powers he could access.

“Why are you still awake?”

“The girl didn’t reverse her spell and I wasn’t killed.”

“Our combined magic should be strong enough to get out of here,” Shaman decided. “I will focus it while you—"

“None combined with none equals none.”

Shaman did not accept defeat that easily. He laid his hand on the font demon’s rigid shoulder and tried again to channel his power, but it made no difference. He couldn’t feel it building within him, and the other made no move to help. In fact, he hadn’t moved an inch since Shaman first saw him.

“Do you _want_ to stay here?” Shaman asked in irritation.

“I have nowhere to go.”

“Will you return to your dormant state at some point?”

“Not unless I’m killed.”

It was like talking to an animal, or a fresh corpse. Shaman went to sit on the other cot, reflecting that Davari’s prized pet wasn’t going to be of much use, and things that were of no use to him were of no interest.

##########

Human guards delivered food and water next morning, but they were impervious to Shaman’s suggestion that they let him go, even when he modulated his voice to its most seductive. Thoroughly frustrated, Shaman began eating the food before noticing that the demon did not. The latter had not stirred from his cot all night

“Do you need to eat?” Shaman asked suddenly.

Demon’s dead gaze moved from the floor to Shaman’s face. “Only if I’m animated for more than two or three days.”

“Do you sleep?”

“I fade into unawareness.”

Shaman went closer to study the Sentinel again. If he was unable to escape, learning more about this unusual creature could be informative, maybe even productive. He didn’t have the tools on hand to gain control over him yet, but having a font demon at his command would give him an edge. “How long had Davari had you?”

Demon’s eyes and tone were dull, his voice deep and a little rough. “I don’t know.”

“What were you before then?”

There was a pause, long enough for Shaman to wonder whether he could refuse to answer. He knew that lesser demons were unable to lie to higher demons, but wasn’t certain where this one fell on the food chain. Finally Demon said, “Human.”

Shaman blinked but otherwise hid his surprise. He hadn’t known that font demons were crafted, although it made sense: their power was not inherent but derived from their master. “What was your name?”

“I don’t remember.”

Shaman didn’t ask about his current name; font demons were anonymous and theoretically interchangeable when not under a higher demon’s control. Without Davari, this one was nameless. “Where did Davari find you?”

Demon finally tilted his head and focused on the person he was talking to. It crossed Shaman’s mind that until then he’d been half-dormant and answering questions automatically; now he was awake. “I don’t remember, and I don’t care to remember. It was too long ago and too far way to matter.”

“What _do_ you remember?”

“Nothing.”

Shaman paced a few steps, wishing he had instruments to write this down. “How many times have you been killed?”

Demon frowned slightly. “I don’t know.”

“What would it take to wake you permanently?”

At that the creature stood up and looked down at his interrogator. He was several inches taller and knew how to loom. “A master. Since I don’t have one, or want one, I will remain as I am.” His silver-blue gaze drilled into Shaman, who had to concede that the demon was large enough and skilled enough to do serious damage to him if provoked. When Shaman was silent, Demon sat down, his face again blank.

Shaman returned to his meal, pleased that he’d found a project to pass the time while he figured out how to get his magic back.

##########

When the guards brought more food at what must have been the end of the day, Shaman approached them.

“If I am not to be mistreated, I need basic supplies,” he said, trying to make it sound like a request rather than an order. “A basin, soap, brush… parchment, pen and ink.” He glanced at his cellmate and added a few more items. The humans seemed startled that a demon would care about such things, but they said they’d talk to Lior.

After eating, Shaman tested his powers again, still not convinced that the gods were strong enough to maintain their wards on the cell. He tried to put out and re-light one of the magical torches with no effect whatsoever. That was one of the first tricks he’d mastered as an apprentice, and not being able to do it made now him angry and a little insecure.

Next day the guards brought the items he’d listed. Two of the most important, in Shaman’s mind, were the basin and soap. A dim corner of the cell held a pipe and bucket contraption rigged up near the ceiling that was meant to serve as a shower, but he had no intention of stripping down to use it. He filled the basin with tepid water and while the demon stared blankly into space, Shaman opened his outer cassock to wash himself. When it was apparent that the other had no interest in looking, he rearranged the other pieces of his clothing as needed and finished his toilette. Fully re-clothed, hair slicked back, and feeling much more himself, he returned to his new cache to pull out the writing materials.

“What is the longest you’ve ever been wake?” he asked, not really expecting a helpful reply. He had to ask again before Demon took a deep breath and raised his head.

“I don’t know.”

“Do your powers increase the longer you’re awake?”

“No.”

“Is it true you can change your appearance?”

“I could when Davari controlled me.”

“How long could you maintain an alternate persona?”

“I don’t know.”

“And now?”

“Now I have no magic.”

“Could you change while in the girl’s control?”

“I had no need to.” Demon was beginning to sound a bit exasperated, which Shaman took as a win.

“Did Davari have any other demons like you?” he asked. That seemed to stump the other, so he elaborated. “He had other sentinels, but they may as well have been brain-dead while they were awake. Were there any others who could reason and act independently?”

“You think I acted independently?” Demon responded, his eyebrows lowering.

“I know you obeyed his orders—”

“I had no will of my own. Everything I did was to achieve his goals.”

That brought up a whole new line of questioning. Shaman started a new column on his parchment. “You didn’t want to achieve his goals?”

“I didn’t want to be a demon.”

“You remember that?”

“I’ve struggled every moment of my existence to forget that.”

Shaman went over and sat on the edge of his cellmate’s cot, anticipating they might finally have a useful conversation. He met the demon’s eyes and wouldn’t look away. “How did Davari acquire you?”

Demon took another deep breath, a sure sign that he was out of his dormant state.

“I was a soldier,” he said, and paused. “An officer. When Demons invaded my city, I led my men into battle with them… They slaughtered us.” Another pause, long enough for Shaman to recall how hard it was sometimes for the gods to be broken, at least hard on the gods. He suddenly felt as if he were trying to break the demon, and wondered if that were possible. “When only a dozen of my men were left alive, Davari made me an offer. If I would agree to serve him, my men would be allowed to go free. I didn’t understand then what I was meant to become.”

“Did he keep his word?”

“He did that day. After he’d gained control of me, I had no way to be sure he didn’t go back and kill them.”

“You must have been angry.”

Demon’s eyes flashed, and for the first time Shaman could see his mind fully functioning, albeit as passionately and irrationally as a human. “I carry enough anger to last till the end of time.”

Shaman took a figurative step back. Although he hadn’t seen the demon in action, he had heard stories of the creature’s single-minded violence. He considered it a challenge to see how close he could bring the other to the brink and then pull him back.

“Did you have a family?” he asked.

The look he received was unflattering. “I don’t remember. I _won’t_ remember. They would be dead now anyway. Why do you keep asking?”

“Because I am skilled in delving into lost memories,” Shaman said smoothly, thrilled that the demon had asked a question in return. “I understand how the mind works—”

“I know of your reputation. I will not be your puppet.”

“I can make it painless, I promise you.”

“Painless for who?”

Demon didn’t wait for a response; he lowered his head, conscious thoughts visibly retreating behind his blank stare. Shaman decided not to push any further that session.

##########

On the third day Demon began eating the food they were brought. He had apparently given up trying to sink into the brain-dead state he’d spent much of his time in while under Davari’s thumb. He seemed confused, and Shaman wondered if he’d ever been awake and aware for this long before without having a goal to achieve for his master. He moved around the cell aimlessly.

Shaman pulled out his parchment and pen. “What would Davari do when you completed a task and returned to him without being killed?”

Demon sighed. “I don’t want to answer any more questions.”

“Do you feel human?”

“I feel dead.”

“You feel hunger. Does your body function normally in other ways?”

“What other ways?” The demon paused in front of the shower device, frowning as if its purpose was familiar but puzzling. He pulled the rope that made the bucket tilt, but stepped back before he could be drenched. The bucket began filling again, while the wasted water flowed down a narrow drain.

“Do you need to wash?” Shaman asked. His pulse increased slightly at the idea of the creature naked, but he ignored it; that was not one of his needs he indulged. “When was the last time you did so?”

Demon murmured under his breath what sounded like his usual response, “I don’t remember.” He touched the fastenings on his clothing, then looked at Shaman uncertainly. “I’ve never…”

Shaman rose and went to join him in the corner. He suddenly knew what the concern was, and it made him hesitate. If he were breaking a god, he would consider this good progress, but apparently he identified more closely with the demon than he ever did a god, because he empathized with the other’s distress.

He swallowed, then stood back. “You’ve never removed your clothing? In all this time?”

Demon shook his head. “I’ve never been awake long enough to need to.”

“What do you fear?”

His voice was almost too faint to hear. “…The body of a corpse.”

“You revealed your arm when Davari sent messages,” Shaman pointed out, unaccountably attempting to reassure him. “There’s no reason to assume the rest of your body isn’t intact.” He looked the tall demon up and down. “Does it _feel_ intact?”

The other raised one of his sleeves to expose an exceedingly pale but normal arm. He nodded then, tossing aside his cape. He began to open his tunic, and Shaman found himself eyeing every inch of the demon as it was revealed, but not out of lasciviousness: he was struck wordless to see dozens if not hundreds of scars on the creature’s body, some still raw, some extremely old.

Demon glanced down at himself to see what was so fascinating and shrugged, apparently not concerned with being naked now that he knew his body hadn’t decomposed. “I bear a mark for every time I was killed.”

“You’ve been a demon for a very long time,” Shaman concluded softly.

He let the other shower in peace.

##########

By the end of the first week Shaman had accepted that his magic was useless, but he was enjoying studying and possibly learning how to manipulate his intriguing new subject. The Font Demon became more human-like every day, although his memories remained lost. Shaman knew for a fact that he could retrieve them if he chose, but it was clear that regaining memories of his life before Davari, as well as of his death with Davari, would damage the demon more than it would help. Shaman told himself he didn’t want to harm his cellmate this soon because it would leave him with very little to occupy his time.

They spoke of Davari when Shaman asked questions, and of the girl-monk and her troublesome entourage. At one point Shaman inquired whether the sentinels had some way of knowing how or when Davari had died, and was relieved to hear that they didn’t. The surviving font demons, like this one, only assumed that Davari was dead because they were no longer connected to him. Shaman rather hoped that none of the other demons who’d survived knew the true fate of their leader either; discovering that Davari might not have been vanquished without Shaman’s attempt to use the Orb would not go over well.

It took many days of patience and persistence, but at last the demon asked Shaman questions of his own volition. Shaman wasn’t sure why he wanted it, since theirs was to be a master/subordinate relationship, but he couldn’t deny being pleased when Demon showed some interest in his cellmate.

“What is your name?” the demon asked out of the blue one morning.

“Not something I share,” Shaman replied without hesitation. He hadn’t spoken his name aloud for at least a century, preferring not to give anyone unnecessary power over him.

“How old are you?”

“Almost two hundred years.”

“Why did Davari trust you?”

Shaman decided to be candid since lying about this would accomplish nothing. “I’m not sure he did. He pretended to, but I would be surprised if he really trusted anyone. He would have been a fool to do so.” He smiled a little. “He was no fool.”

“As I thought.”

“What do you mean?”

“Demons cannot be trusted. With or without magic.”

“You’re saying that you don’t trust _me_.”

Demon tilted his head a little. “I know of your work. You were the god-breaker, expert in playing mind games. I don’t know if you can stop.”

That was a more astute observation than Shaman expected. He wondered whether the demon had been well-educated when he was human. He’d assumed otherwise simply because the human had been a soldier.

“Do you think I’m trying to break you?” His smile had grown without him realizing it.

“No. I think you know that I would break you before you could succeed.”

That brought the conversation to a full halt.

##########

It was another day or two before Shaman was comfortable enough to try again. In the meantime he’d watched the demon go about his business in the cell, undressing, showering and re-dressing. His was an impressive body, well-muscled under the scars, and he moved easily now that he was awake. Shaman did not approach him since he had been reminded that in a purely non-magical fight, he would undoubtedly lose to this opponent. That was not a possibility he had faced in many decades, preferring to stay safely outside the seal in the sphere while manipulating his other victims. The realization made him temper his experiment with this one.

“Has your hair always been white?” he asked presently. The demon had just washed it and was wringing it out over the drain. He looked at it now as if to confirm its color.

“No. It became lighter every time I used Davari’s magic in his service. I don’t remember what color it was before.”

“Interesting. It didn’t work like that with the other sentinels. If anything, their coloring got darker.”

“What are you going to do with your notes about me?”

“I’m not sure. For now I’m gathering knowledge for its own sake.”

“We may never be released. Lior said we’d be here till the war between gods and demons is over.” Demon sank down on his cot. “Can you see that happening?”

“No.” Shaman admitted it only because he still had ulterior plans. “If the demons got the upper hand, humans would fight on the side of the gods. If the gods were winning, demons would crack down on and use the humans within their domains.”

“Then you’re satisfied to stay here forever?”

“Of course not. I’m satisfied to stay here for _now_ because out there I would be a useful pawn. My powers are strong and unique, but I’m not a warrior. I will need protection beyond magic when I leave here.” Shaman decided to reveal an idea he’d had while admiring the demon’s physique. “And you will need a master in order to have purpose. I think we would make a formidable pair.”

Demon lay down and closed his eyes rather than voice his opinion on that subject.

##########

Time passed slowly. Shaman had the guards bring him more parchment and ink, and eventually requested a change of clothing. His cassocks were not suitable for sitting around for days on end, and Demon’s leathers were showing extensive wear.

The prospect of new garments seemed to dumbfound the demon. He looked from his old, form-fitting black uniform to the new grey tunic and breeches he was offered, and shook his head. “Those are human clothes.”

“Not when worn by a demon,” Shaman said reasonably. For himself he’d chosen a single cassock-like robe in a deep indigo. It covered him from neck to toe as his old outfit had, but it was made of a lighter material. After all, he had no need for hidden pockets to conceal his charms while he was locked up, and the cell, though walled in stone, wasn’t cold.

As if reading his mind, Demon suddenly asked, “Why don’t you shower?”

Shaman was frankly surprised the other had noticed that he never stripped completely, continuing to do his ablutions in the basin. “I prefer not to.” Demon was staring at him oddly, so Shaman immediately tried to put them back on an unequal footing. “You’ll sleep more comfortably in the new clothes.”

“I have no need to sleep comfortably. I already sleep like the dead.”

With that the demon tossed the new items onto Shaman’s cot and returned to his own.

From then on Shaman paid more attention to the demon at night, or what they mutually designated as night since there was no way to judge from the cell the rising and setting of the sun. He’d known that the other slept soundly since any sound or movement from him during the night would have woken Shaman, who was a very light sleeper. He hadn’t noticed that the demon really did slip into such a deep unconsciousness that he could not be woken till he was ready. For several nights in a row Shaman tested the theory that his cellmate was indeed dead for hours at a time. Water splashed on his face didn’t wake him, nor did slapping him or breaking his skin. What’s worse, now that he was aware of the demon’s nightly state, Shaman discovered that it was lasting a little longer each time. A week after the demon first mentioned it, he was slipping into a death-like sleep a mere hour or two after they received their dinner.

“You are not recovering,” Shaman remarked one morning as soon as Demon opened his eyes. He always seemed a bit confused about his surroundings until Shaman spoke.

“Why would I be recovering?” Demon asked.

“I thought you were reverting to the person you were before Davari made you a demon. You’re not.”

“Then it is your conclusion that was wrong, not my condition.”

Shaman granted that. “My new conclusion is that if you don’t have a master to provide you a reason to survive, one day you will not wake up at all.”

Demon’s lips tightened. “I do not want a master.”

“You don’t have a choice. You are a font demon.”

“Unless I were to die and no one brings me back to life.”

“Is that what you’re hoping for? Your body to linger forever with your brain shut down?” Shaman found he was disgusted with that possibility. He watched the demon lie on his cot a while longer. “Do you dream?”

“What do you think?”

“That you don’t remember?”

The other made a sound that could have been a laugh if he hadn’t looked so depressed.

When he finally got up and went to shower, Shaman had a startling idea that might turn the demon’s mood around. He didn’t stop to wonder why he wanted to.

When Demon sat down on his bed after wringing out his hair, Shaman moved quickly behind him and placed one hand on his shoulder. Demon tensed but didn’t pull away. When Shaman began brushing his hair, the other froze for a moment, then turned to face him with a bewildered expression. Shaman turned him back around and continued brushing till his hair was almost dry.

Before he could walk away, Demon gripped Shaman’s wrist in his cold fingers, the first time he’d deliberately touched his cellmate. He still appeared confounded. “Why did you do that?”

Shaman didn’t really know, now that he’d done it, so he ignored the question and returned to his cot. He pretended to review his notes for the rest of the morning.

##########

It was later that day that Shaman attempted again to use his magic. He missed it; it had been decades since he’d had to do manual tasks himself, such as go and slide his empty plate under the cell door. He was sitting on his cot annotating his earlier observations and didn’t feel like getting up, so he flicked his hand as he’d used to, thinking the necessary spell, and nearly gasped when his plate moved obediently to the door. The demon hadn’t seen, so Shaman turned his back, automatically concealing his feat.

He tried to create fire, and to his immense satisfaction was able to do so: a small but sturdy flame appeared at his fingertips. For several minutes he played with it, mentally ordering it to move from one hand to the other. Heart rising, he then ordered the door to open, and was perplexed when nothing happened. He tried several more times before conceding that either his magic wasn’t strong enough yet, or the gods’ magic wasn’t weak enough. Still, this meant one or both were moving in the right direction.

After the demon had sunk into oblivion, Shaman practiced his magic more openly. He was able to put out each of the ever-burning torches and re-light them at will. He was able to tilt the shower bucket and stop the water in mid-air. He was even able to raise Demon’s cot several inches off the floor and turn it and him in a complete circle. Yet he was still unable to unlock the cell door, and next morning, he was unable to influence the guards who brought their food. All in all, it was encouraging but still frustrating.

“Has any of your magic come back to you?” he inquired casually once the demon had awoken. The latter was no longer functioning prior to breakfast.

Demon looked at his hands blankly. “Why would it?”

Shaman suspected some of his own mind-manipulation tactics were rubbing off on the other since he often answered a question with a question these days. “Try it.”

“I have no connection to anyone with magic,” Demon pointed out. “There’s nothing to come back or try.” He swept his hair off his face and seemed to suddenly remember Shaman’s actions the previous day. Confusion returned to his eyes, but he didn’t remark on it again.

That night while his cellmate slept, Shaman worked the spell to manifest writing on a font demon’s skin. He felt his magic activate and was inordinately pleased when his demon woke with a start. Frowning, he pushed up his sleeve and blinked upon seeing the message there: ‘_Can you read these words?_’

“How did you do this?” he demanded.

“I know how I did it; I’m more curious why it woke you,” Shaman replied. “You appeared to be comatose.”

The demon was breathing rather heavily, but appeared fully cognizant. “Your magic has returned?”

“Not all of it.” He did the spell again and smiled slightly when Demon exposed his other arm to read the new message: ‘_What does it feel like?_’

“Like my skin is being written on from the inside,” he said.

“Does it hurt you?”

“It… tickles when it occurs. If I don’t deliver the message to the intended recipient within a few minutes, it feels like a knife cutting into my skin until I do.”

Shaman nodded. “Then it’s fortunate that you were the intended recipient.”

“Why send any message at all?”

“Because that is not a simple spell. If I can do that, maybe I can…” He directed his magic at the cell door, but the bars remained solid. Shaman sighed. “Soon.”

“Where would you go if you were free?”

“I have a safe place.” He described the sphere, which others knew as the Breaking Ground, and why it was impenetrable unless one knew where to find it. He didn’t describe what it had been used for; it could have other purposes. “I can stay there indefinitely while the gods and demons sort themselves out.”

Demon tilted his head. “You would be confined inside it until outside circumstances changed? How does that differ from where you are now?”

For one of the rare times in his life, Shaman found himself without an immediate answer.

##########

The next time Demon washed his hair, he sat down on his cot afterwards without looking at Shaman. His shoulders were bowed a little and he appeared utterly dejected. Shaman felt an unusual twinge in the region of his heart. Silently he moved behind the other and began gently brushing his hair.

“Thank you,” Demon said before he’d finished. His voice was unsteady. “I haven’t been touched in kindness for many years.”

“I don’t normally make a habit of it,” Shaman said under his breath.

“Why now?”

“… Because I don’t want you to slip permanently into death.” He lightened his tone. “I haven’t finished studying you.”

That seemed to satisfy the demon’s curiosity.

A few nights later Shaman was again awake and restless. He sent his cellmate a new message: ‘_Wake up and talk to me’_. When Demon opened his eyes immediately, Shaman smiled at this proof that he now had some control over the man. He was straight–faced again when the other turned to him.

“About what?”

“You propose a subject.”

The demon took a few seconds to think. “Were you always interested in mind control?”

Shaman settled back on his cot. He was magically able to make the wall spongy so that it was comfortable to lean against, but unsurprisingly was not able to penetrate it. “Yes, in a way. I became interested in it when it was used on _me_.” He heard his voice start to harden and deliberately smoothed it before he spoke again. “When it was discovered how clever I am, other demons, other powerful magicians, resented me. They tried to hold me back from learning all I could. They were afraid I’d uncover their secrets, so they used mind-spells on me when I was too inexperienced to fight them.”

“So you learned more than them and used their own tricks against them.”

“Of course.” He was glad that the other knew him well enough to deduce that. “I can work spells that no one else alive even knows about. That’s why Davari promised me immortality. Once he had it, he would need me beside him.”

Demon nodded. “I overheard him say that he would keep me with him as well. He didn’t intend to release me.”

Shaman hadn’t known that, and the implications disturbed him. He’d rarely contemplated the extent of Davari’s cruelty as long as it hadn’t affected him personally. “I’m sorry… to hear that.”

“He deserved to die.”

“Yes, he deserved his fate.”

“May I go back to sleep now?”

Shaman was awake long after his companion had again succumbed to darkness.

##########

A few mornings later, after another useless attempt to open the cell door, Shaman got tired of being virtually alone for more than half a day at a time. He wrote ‘_Good morning_’ on the demon’s arm, then before the other could respond, added “_Come rejoin the living_’ and ‘_Or I’ll eat your breakfast_’. Demon sat up and stared at him, his striking eyes wide.

“Are you _teasing_ me?” he asked in disbelief. Shaman smiled a little. The demon just shook his head, then glanced at him again. “You have a nice smile.”

That was not what Shaman expected or wanted to hear. He sobered up instantly. “I will not let you become brain-dead,” he stated. “You’ve a good brain; it should be used for more than killing.”

“How would you use it?”

“If you served me, I would give you some autonomy.”

Demon looked away in disappointment. “I want neither servitude nor autonomy.”

“What do you want?” Shaman was certain the other would say yet again that he wanted his existence to end. To his private delight, the demon hesitated. He appeared torn and very unhappy about it, but Shaman’s heart did a small lurch. Disconcerted, he refused to let his voice reflect that. “You’re going to live. I will give you no choice, so you may as well accept me as your master. I will treat you much better than Davari.”

“You still believe we’ll escape this place? I have no need of a master while we’re here.”

“We will escape. Shall we make a deal? If I’m successful in freeing us, you’ll agree to be my Sentinel?”

The other had rallied and now faced Shaman with a faint smile of his own. “The last deal I made with a demon is what brought me to this. You’ve said I’m not stupid. Why would I repeat the worst mistake of my life?”

Shaman wasn’t about to admit that he would be reluctant to leave the palace without his cellmate, and not just because he might need a warrior’s protection once out among the populace. He gave a noncommittal shrug and let the matter drop.

After Demon showered later that day, he clearly didn’t expect a repeat of Shaman’s previous consideration. He began brushing his own hair with his back to his cellmate, which oddly just irritated Shaman. Once the demon had finished, Shaman crossed the room and took the brush from his hand, then rested his own palm against the other’s pale and cold face. Demon drew his breath in sharply.

“The writing on your jawline feels like the rest of your skin,” Shaman announced to explain his action. “Can you feel it?”

“No.”

“Can you feel my fingers when I touch it?”

“Yes...”

He stroked gently as if to see whether the lettering could be erased, although he already knew otherwise. “What did it feel like when your name was inscribed on your forehead?” The demon did not seem capable of forming a reply, to Shaman’s satisfaction. He removed his hand with a protracted caress. “I’ll assume you don’t remember.”

Demon sighed once Shaman had returned to his cot. When he spoke, he sounded gutted, which made Shaman wince. “Why do you do things like that?”

“Because I can. Do you want me to stop?”

“I can’t play your mind games. I don’t have the…”

“Skills? Fortitude?”

“Heart.” He spoke so softly Shaman almost didn’t hear him, then raised his head and voice to add, “It’s not a game to me. It means too much. You know that.”

Shaman had a dismissive reply on the tip of his tongue, but he accidentally met the demon’s eyes and was forced to allow that he’d never had the courage to reveal anything so painful. The demon was close to breaking, and Shaman found he really didn’t want that.

Before his worse nature could intercede, he returned to Demon’s side and cupped his face again. Looking directly into his unguarded eyes, Shaman said, “I’m sorry.”

He didn’t qualify his apology this time, and he didn’t linger long enough for the man to respond. Once on his cot, he lay down with his back to his cellmate and wondered why this was happening to him. It was irrational and weak, and he was determined that it would go no further.

##########

The following night he didn’t wake his demon. Instead, while the other slept, Shaman knelt beside his bed and touched his face again. He carefully undid the fastenings on Demon’s tunic and opened it in order to see the other’s chest. There was a knife scar directly over his heart, and when Shaman rested his hand on it, he was relieved to feel that organ beating steadily. He left his hand there for several minutes, but the skin under his fingers didn’t warm. The demon didn’t stir when he traced some of the other large scars, his fingers eventually following one down below his belt. Shaman stopped at that point and restored the demon’s clothing, unsure whether he’d found the answer he’d sought.

That day, he took a shower. He hadn’t bothered to waken his cellmate, and they’d had nothing to say to each other once the latter was up. Yet when Shaman stripped and stood under the bucket, he could feel Demon watching him, and it took all his will power not to hide the many spells that decorated his skin from neck to toe. He turned around when the demon came nearer, deliberately exposing the other marks on his chest.

The demon’s eyes were wide as he took in what he was seeing. “You did this to yourself?”

“Yes and no.” Shaman made his tone level and silky despite his discomfort. “The spells I inscribed myself. If I’d written them on parchment someone else could have found them, and I was unwilling to share. The slash marks were _not_ my idea.”

Demon reached out as if to touch the first set of slashes just above Shaman’s right pectoral, but didn’t make contact. He counted the rest in a whisper. “Sixteen. Why?”

“My first teacher kept track of the number of times I failed his lessons. By the sixteenth time I was strong enough to kill him, and after that I didn’t fail again.”

“No one else knows,” the other surmised.

“Not even Davari.”

“By showing me this, you’ve given me power over you.”

“The scales are not balanced, I assure you.”

With a look that nearly took Shaman’s breath away, the demon began undressing, dropping each item of clothing on the floor as if it would never be required again. When he was naked, he stepped under the bucket and pulled the cord so that fresh water fell over them both. He never broke their gaze.

It was Shaman who made the next move. He pulled the other to him and crushed their lips together, not caring that he seemed a bit desperate. The demon returned the kiss readily, but his caresses were so light on Shaman’s back that he could barely feel them. To reassure the demon that his touch was welcome, Shaman clutched him firmly in return, and after a moment, the demon’s hands were blazing a shivery trail up and down his spine.

Shaman’s own hands began exploring everywhere they could reach, including below the waist. He grasped Demon’s member, expecting to bring him a type of pleasure the man probably hadn’t experienced in decades, and was startled when that part of his anatomy didn’t respond. His own cock was telling him it was ready for business, but although Demon was still kissing him deeply, the latter apparently didn’t require anything more.

“Are you…” Shaman pulled back a fraction of an inch in order to speak, but then wasn’t sure what he wanted to ask. “Can you…”

The demon met his eyes, and all the life in his own seemed to drain away. He ended his embrace and tried to free himself. “I don’t know.”

Shaman tightened his arms around the taller man. “It doesn’t matter,” he said honestly. “I’ve never cared for having sex with partners anyway.”

“Then why…”

“I was attempting to be unselfish. Apparently it’s not necessary.”

“You’re very strange.”

“I prefer ‘self-sufficient’.”

Smiling, he resumed their kiss, pleased to discover that Demon was fine with him managing his own needs. Not only was he happy to climax in his own hand while the other man’s tongue was in his mouth, it was actually one of his more satisfying climaxes of recent years.

Afterwards he cleaned himself up and went to sprawl on his cot, assuming the demon would follow. When he didn’t, Shaman sent him two messages: “_Come lay with me_” and “_I want you close_.”

Demon approached slowly, his face unreadable, and halted beside the cot. When he spoke, his voice was very soft. “It’s hard for me to believe that anyone would want to hold me or feel my touch.”

“I do,” Shaman stated. He offered his hand, then pulled Demon down beside him. It was a tight fit, but that’s exactly what he wanted.

##########

Shaman’s research took a different course after that. It was definitely a more hands-on approach than his usual study, but he felt he was learning things no one else in the history of font demons ever had. For one thing, he discovered that if he and Demon were in physical contact when the latter fell asleep, he stayed asleep naturally for the rest of the night. If he slept alone, or if were separated from Shaman during his sleep, he sank into the death-state and did not wake up without outside stimulus.

They also discovered that there was a specific order in which messages appeared on the demon’s body. Writing always showed up first on his arms, then his shoulders, chest and stomach. Try as Shaman might, no matter how rapidly he sent his short and nonsensical missives, he never succeeded in writing on Demon’s lower torso or legs.

He still attempted to use his magic occasionally, and each time a new spell worked, he quickly tried to disintegrate the door. He tried to melt the lock or crumble the door frame, but there was never any result. Several times he tried to break through one of the walls, or drill into the stone floor or ceiling, but for all the good it did, he might as well have been as helpless as the day he’d been imprisoned.

“This is ludicrous,” he announced after he was able to raise the demon’s unused garments without difficulty and make them fly around the cell. “My magic is strong. Why can’t I use it as I wish?”

“Maybe you can only affect objects inside the room,” Demon suggested. He didn’t show much interest in the matter unless his cellmate brought it up.

Shaman shook his head. He made an apple appear in his hand, then had his ink pot refill itself. “I can bring some items in,” he said, “but not anything useful.” He brought in a hammer, which vanished an instant later, and a rope which also faded as soon as it appeared. He could not create an Orb at all.

“Perhaps things you can only _use_ inside the cell? Bring… a towel.”

“Simple.” Shaman threw the new towel aside as soon as it materialized.

“A pry bar.”

That should have been simple too, but Shaman’s magic failed before the object solidified. It seemed the demon might be on to something.

Demon shrugged. “Bring a hairpin.”

That was too easy. Shaman brought a handful and also set them aside. He then conjured a loaf of bread, a ball of string and a tall candle. He was unable to create and keep a knife to cut the bread or string, nor a stick to hold the candle.

“Intent?” he wondered aloud. “Could it depend on what I intend to do with the objects? Some are harmless, but others can be used to help us escape?”

Demon didn’t offer an opinion, but Shaman had something new to think about.

##########

Next day he tried to form an acid to pour on the cell door’s lock, without success. He magically disassembled the demon’s cot and used one of the beams to batter the wall, but the wood immediately broke into kindling. When the guards came with breakfast, he tried to charm them into coming inside, but all that did was make them exchange a wary look and flee.

He created a chair since the demon no longer had a bed to sit on, and then a table to hold the various items they were accumulating. He made his own bed larger, longer and more comfortable, and then materialized a warmer blanket since lying every night wrapped in the arms of a corpse tended to get chilly.

Warning Demon to stand back, he worked one of the most complicated spells he knew, one that should open a portal leading to a distant part of the realm. An undulating circle of grey mist appeared in the center of the cell, but although he threw all his power at it, the portal never opened and when he gave up, it closed in a blink.

Demon moved to sit beside Shaman on their cot and studied his face closely, seemingly concerned. “Your eyes changed,” he explained.

“I know. They always do,” Shaman didn’t feel it anymore, but he was aware that his eyes grew darker and hotter when he was devising elaborate spells. The longer it took, the more sunken they appeared.

“Not always. Only when your magic fails.”

Shaman turned to him, undecided whether to believe it, but font demons were normally incapable of imagining things. “You’re sure of this?”

Demon gently touched the corner of Shaman’s eye, his finger chilly against Shaman’s over-heated skin. “I am.”

After a minute, Shaman conjured a small mirror and watched himself in it while he made the water in the shower bucket dissolve into fine droplets of rain that swept across the room and back again into the vessel. To his consternation, his eyes did not darken at all. He then ordered the door to turn itself inside out, and his eyes immediately changed color, deepening from indigo to nearly black. The door of course remained right side out.

He was silent for a while, contemplating what this could mean. When the answer hit him, he grabbed his parchment and pen. Thinking back through his time in the cell, he made two lists, and they confirmed his deduction.

“Not just _intent_,” he stated triumphantly. “It also depends on the _source_. The spells that work, the innocent ones that don’t affect our escape, are spells any magician could learn, or any god. I could do them without special training. The ones that don’t work are the ones I learned from master magicians… master demons. Other shamans.”

“Dark magic,” his cellmate concluded.

“Yes, learned from dark masters. The gods somehow warded the room so that I can only do harmless spells and those not intended to free us.”

Demon met his eyes. “I told you that Lior said dark magic doesn’t work here.”

“Yes, you did.” Shaman said thoughtfully.

The other touched Shaman’s face again, stroking gently, his expression still uneasy. “Can you live without dark magic?”

“I hope I never have to find out.” Shaman knew what he was asking however. When Demon started to take his hand away, Shaman pulled it back, pleased that the man had initiated physical contact. It was still a rare occurrence. “I can live without it _here_,” he conceded, “but I’ll need it when we’re free. Otherwise I may as well be a human.”

“Or a god.”

That concept didn’t make Shaman cringe inside the way he once would have, but he didn’t pursue the point since all his attention was on his partner’s touch. He willed their clothing to vanish, and smiled when that made the demon move in closer. They kissed naturally and passionately, only shifting a little to allow Shaman access to his cock. He caught his breath sharply when Demon wrapped his own hand over Shaman’s and together they brought him to climax. Demon had never done that before, and Shaman hadn’t realized how much he’d wanted it.

When he sought to stir Demon’s member, it remained dormant. The demon seemed to enjoy having it fondled, but since he enjoyed any touch offered, Shaman didn’t think it meant anything. He was getting used to lying with a lover as cold as a corpse, and found that really didn’t bother him.

##########

One evening while idly working spells, Shaman decided to repair his partner’s uniform. Demon wasn’t wearing it at the time; he’d taken to remaining naked rather than putting on the grey outfit, and Shaman wasn’t inclined to complain. When he magically held up the now pristine uniform and cape for Demon’s approval, the latter paused, then did something Shaman had never seen before: he smiled. Shaman’s heart nearly stopped.

“Thank you,” the demon said.

“You’re very welcome.”

He watched Demon get dressed, and was frankly baffled when the latter brought him his own black cassocks, clearly intending that he change into them. Shaman did so, then waited for his next move.

Demon sat down in the chair facing him. His expression was no longer as stiff as it’d been when they’d met, but right now it was just as somber. “You thought I was becoming human, then you thought I was becoming dead. Maybe I’m not becoming anything. Maybe this is what I am.”

“I realize that now.”

“A demon without a purpose. A servant without a master.”

“You’re more than that.”

“I know you made me fall in love with you so that I would agree to be your Sentinel,” he said. Shaman’s immediate impulse was to deny that; it may have been his plan at one time, but a great deal had happened since then. “It doesn’t matter whether you work a spell to make it so. I will be what you want me to be.” When Shaman had no immediate reply, the demon added, “You’ve become my purpose.”

Shaman’s heart jumped in a way he hadn’t anticipated upon hearing those words. He’d won, and he hadn’t even known the extent of the prize. Holding Demon’s gaze, he sent a simple four-word message, and knew the instant the other received it.

Demon’s next move was completely unexpected: he rose and went to the table that held their supplies. Selecting an item too small for Shaman to see, he crossed to the door and knelt there, doing something with the lock. After a few minutes, it opened and fell to the floor.

Shaman’s jaw actually dropped before he remembered himself. He saw the demon toss away the hairpin he’d used, then wait motionless for his lover’s reaction, obviously afraid it would be negative.

The thoughts running through Shaman’s head ranged from the profane to the inane. He was livid, bemused, mortified and at the same time impressed. After a moment his mind settled on the most incongruous realization of all: he’d been the other’s prisoner as much as the gods. He’d been out-maneuvered at his own game.

When he approached the demon, the man stopped breathing, but Shaman simply pulled him to his feet and into his arms. “You are the most infuriating creature I’ve ever known,” he whispered near his demon’s ear. “And you have become my purpose too.”

Demon finally exhaled, embracing Shaman as if his existence depended on it. For several minutes they didn’t move, then the demon sighed. “Now what?”

“Now we improvise.”

The guards had brought their dinner not long before, so Shaman reasoned that they had a few hours till those occupying the palace were asleep. He hoped he’d be able to blink himself and his companion to another location as soon as they exited the cell, but there was a chance that Lior’s wards were active throughout the building. If that were the case, he and the demon might have to fight their way out, and he wasn’t quite ready for that.

“I will do whatever you say,” Demon promised.

Shaman’s mind raced ahead. “You know that the spell to claim you requires the hair of a god.”

“I know.”

He hesitated to reveal his next thought, but if his partner was brave enough to lay his heart on the line, Shaman opted to as well. “Legend has it that one of the lost sacred scrolls tells how to turn a demon into a human.” He felt the other draw in another long breath. “_If_ we can locate it.”

“It would have to be translated.”

“Then either way, we need to find a cooperative god. That could take a while.”

Demon gently kissed Shaman’s temple. “I am willing to wait.”

Shaman suddenly felt surprisingly optimistic about the future. Smiling widely, he murmured, “So am I.” 


End file.
